


The Beauty Of It All

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle - Freeform, mr and mrs gold, rumbelle honeymoon, rumbelle wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle and Rumpelstiltskin's first night as a married couple is as wonderful as their last year apart was terrible. Post season 3 finale fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beauty Of It All

They’re silent on the walk back to the pink house – their pink house, as Belle has to keep reminding herself, because the law here is the same as in their old world and all that is his is now hers as well – but not uncomfortably so. They’ve simply used up such a wealth of words in the past few hours, and those words big, grand and meaningful, that anything smaller than what’s been said already, anything less than “I love you now and forever”, would only cheapen the moment.

They walk through the town’s silent streets, avoiding Main and the street past Granny’s, or anywhere else where revelry is taking place. Yes, Zelena has been defeated – although Belle’s heard she’s escaped, and has to push the thought away because no, no that woman will not ruin tonight as she has ruined the past year or more – and yes, everyone is finally back where they should be, but tonight neither Belle nor Rumpelstiltskin care a damn for any of them.

Tonight is theirs, their wedding night, the first in an endless and glorious parade of days and nights together as man and wife, and anyone coming to speak to them, any intrusion on this blessed and peaceful moment, would only break the spell.

There have already been more than enough spells to be broken for one marriage, and they’ve been married no more than an hour. So they walk through the darkest streets they can find, lit only by dim white lamplight, arm in arm and step to step, and utterly, blissfully alone.

They stand at last on their porch, and Rumpelstiltskin waves a hand. The door swings open, invitingly, and one by one Belle watches as every candle and dim table lamp in the house lights one by one. She lets out a soft giggle.

“Something the matter, my dear?” he asks, the first words he’s spoken since his vows.

She gives him a look, eyebrow raised and lips twitching, “Light magic,” she explains. “Literally.”

He thinks about it a moment, and then laughs with her, soft and disbelieving. “We start our marriage on such an abysmal pun,” he says, shaking his head, and then she lets out a startled yelp as he sweeps her into his arms, and her elbow comes automatically to cradle his neck, his warm hands spanning her side and her left thigh to hold her up.

She laughs again, “A bad joke and now you’ve caught me up,” she says, “are you intent on replaying all of our greatest hits?”

“Mm,” he hums, and steals a kiss with the happiest and yet most devious smile she’s ever seen him wear, “And a few more besides.”

A thrill runs down her spine at that, anticipation and longing and a love so deep that even she is not brave enough to look it full in the face for too long. He steps over the threshold and deposits her gently on the floor again, making a show of rolling his shoulders.

“Did you not think that one through?” she asks, teasingly.

“Either you were lighter or I was stronger last time,” he mutters.

“It’s all those hamburgers,” she shrugs, grinning, “You should see me in my underwear: I have no idea what Granny’s putting in those.”

He raises an eyebrow and runs his eyes over her lasciviously, a gaze so purely physical that she can almost feel it, as if he’s touching her everywhere. She shivers at the intensity of that look, as he chuckles, low and dark. “Oh, I intend to.”

“And my father gave us his blessing,” Belle shakes her head, as Rumpelstiltskin takes her wrist and pulls her toward him, so his arm can snake around her back and hold her close. Her hand comes up to absently toy with the hair at the back of his neck, and he’s so close she can smell his cologne and the raw magic on his skin. “I don’t think he knew what he was agreeing to.”

“Perhaps let’s not invoke your father, hm?” he suggests, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch with a soft sigh, and his thumb caresses her lower lip, and he’s looking at her like he often does when he doesn’t think she can see him: like he thinks she might vanish at any moment, and is drinking her in and storing her up for when she goes away again.

All things considered, he’s vanished more times than she has, and when he died there was no hope that it was just a trick or sleight of hand. But she went looking for him none the less, and she found him. It’s a feat she will always accomplish, finding him when he has become lost, but he still looks at her like he’ll never have another chance.

“ _Each time you happen to me all over again_ ,” she murmurs, and kisses him deeply, pulling him down to her level as she reaches up on her tiptoes. Every kiss still thrills her like their first, and every secret smile, every moment of stolen intimacy in a world that is too hard and too sharp for such things, still steals her breath. She hopes that no matter how long they are married that feeling never goes away: that this love is mysterious and beautiful, and every day she uncovers it for the very first time.

“I didn’t know you were reading Wharton,” he notes, when they part for breath. “You need lighter reading material.”

“A life of meetings and partings,” she says, softly, “and love that doesn’t need to be said to be felt. It spoke to me.”

“I never intend to part from you again,” he vows, “ever.”

“But if you do, we’ll meet again,” she tells him, with all the certainty she holds deep in her soul. “That’s the beauty of it.”

“I’ll take the beauty of this over that any day,” he says, with a smile that tells her he’s happy now and not to ruin it with the threat of whatever comes next, and she nods in silent agreement and kisses him softly, tenderly, in apology and agreement both.

His right hand reaches up to pull the little white hat from her head, and he throws it somewhere into the living room, intent on finding every hairpin that keeps her dark curls coiled at the back of her head and releasing them. Her hair tumbles down her back in soft waves, and he threads his fingers through the strands and spreads them thoughtfully over her shoulders.

“You should have worn your hair down,” he murmurs, absently. “That’s what maidens fair do at their weddings, after all.”

“A maiden must also be chaste and virtuous,” she teases, lightly, “I think we’re perhaps a little past that, aren’t we?”

“You’re the most virtuous woman I know, Belle,” he says, honestly, and she blushes for the hundredth time this evening because she’s never met anyone in any realm who loves as deeply and truly as he does. “Virtue is strength and bravery and passion, and who needs chastity when you’re already all of those?”

“Oh, Rumple,” she kisses him again, with all of the passion he just accused her of, and he more than returns the same in kind. She is breathless, trembling in his arms, his kiss turning her incandescent as she yields to him helplessly, his tongue seeking out every sensitive spot he knows now so well and exploiting them ruthlessly, until her knees are weak and her head spinning. When they finally part for breath, she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, and she will never get over how utterly disbelieving his hugs always feel at first, as if she’ll break if he holds her too tightly or for too long.

It’s wonderful to be so surrounded by him, to have him hold her so tightly and to tuck her head under his so that they fit like puzzle pieces.

He pulls away, this time, and tugs meaningfully at her coat. She grins at him, and shucks it off, revealing the vintage dress she’d found in the shop on the first day back in Storybrooke, the one she’d refused to let him see.

It’s a night dress, really, a negligée that she’s hemmed and added a petticoat underneath so it’s not entirely see-through, but if she’s honest there’s a reason she didn’t remove her coat between Ruby’s room, where she’d changed before the ceremony, and here. Her father would not have approved, tights or no. It fits to her top half like a second skin, ivory lace that hides nothing and reveals everything, bare at the arms and lightly ruffled down the front with a line of pearled buttons that ends at her waist. It then flares slightly to create the illusion of a skirt, but it ends around her mid-thighs, and without the coat she knows Rumple can see everything.

She’d seen the dress in the back of the shop, and thought sadly that if she’d ever been able to marry him, she’d have wanted that dress to feature. It brings her more joy than she can ever express to think of that forlorn, battered woman sitting in the back shop and sobbing over a white dress, and know that this was where all that pain was leading. To this moment, with her Rumpelstiltskin dumbstruck and gaping at the sight of her, with more love and desire and utter astonishment in his eyes than anyone would believe.

“Is something the matter?” she raises her eyebrows, coyly. He shakes his head.

“When did you have time to put this together?” he asks, and she laughs delightedly.

“The dress was in the shop,” she explains, “the rest… did you know there’s a lingerie shop on third? And that it’s still open? Sometimes I forget how many people in this town aren’t involved in most of the trouble that happens.”

“I… was not aware of that,” he says, and she can hear his conscious effort to keep his voice level, to sound composed and casual when he is clearly anything but. His eyes trace again the smooth ivory corset beneath her sheer gown, and the tops of the stockings and garters just visible beneath the hem of her tiny skirt. “I am however now planning to halve their rent next month.”

“Rumpelstiltskin, the generous benefactor of small businesses,” Belle presses a hand to her heart, “who would ever have thought?”

He makes a noise low in his throat, hungry and feral as she’s never heard him in this human form, and lunges for her, grasping her hair at the back of her head and dragging her in for a kiss that is all bruising lips and teeth and desperation, and Belle is all of a sudden reminded that they’ve been separated for over a year. It’s been a whole year since they made love without any magic or curses to get in the way, and she is trembling with need for him, with the quick and sure knowledge that she cannot go an hour longer.

She suddenly understands his urgency, and pushes him away by his suit collar only to kick off her heels to one side and immediately kiss him again. Her nimble fingers undo his tie and throw both it and his cashmere scarf to one side, and start work immediately on his shirt buttons, stopped only when he breaks their kiss and stops her hands with his own.

“Patience,” he breathes, raggedly, although he looks and sounds like he is capable of anything but. He’s looking at her like he would devour her whole, and Belle is more than happy to accommodate that. “We have all night.”

“It’s been over a year, Rumple,” she pleads, “please.”

He nods and toes off his loafers without a second thought, both of them thankful now that he’d foregone shoes with laces. She takes him by the hand, and leads him up the stairs, stopping every few steps to nip at his jaw or lick his lower lip, and see how much darker she can make his eyes go. His hands grasp at her waist on the top landing, her back flush to his front and his hungry mouth roving over every exposed inch of neck and throat he can find, turning her knees to liquid and setting her skin on fire.

The night before this Rumple had been too exhausted and broken to make love and Belle had more than understood. In fact it had felt right, like what both of them needed, to simply hold one another all night and talk and to weep for everything that had happened. But all of that is for another time, for tomorrow or the following day, for daylight. Tonight isn’t for mourning, for souring and making sick with grief and sorrow and darkness. The last year has been all too full of that, and Belle refuses to allow the pain of the past to bleed into this, the most perfect night of her life.

So they walk slowly, still entwined down the hall to his bedroom. The candles are already lit when they arrive, and the bed is pristine and their clothes are in their drawers and everything is neat and clean, ready for a new beginning. Belle breaks his hold on her gently, and goes in in front of him, expecting him to follow but not surprised when he hangs back to drink her in.

She has so idea of what he sees, and she does not begrudge him the sight of his dishevelled wife of all of ninety minutes stood in the centre of their bedroom, smiling invitingly in a sheer dress and stockings. After all that Rumpelstiltskin has suffered and endured, Belle honestly cannot deny him any small pleasure she could offer him, and if this is what he wants then she is happy to wait.

Rumple had smiled and held her closer last night, face buried in her hair, when he’d asked curiously how come she’d had a fresh nightgown to slip into before bed and she’d admitted to having lived in his home ever since he’d left for Neverland. When he’d returned he’d been too busy telling her his tales and kissing her and making love to her on every available surface to ask the question. But then, the man who’d appeared on the docks that day, victorious and homeward bound, was a very different one to the man who stands before her now, resplendent in his socks and shirtsleeves in their bedroom doorway.

He’s smaller now, somehow, and softer too. He’s lost so very much and been hurt so deeply, and all of that confidence and power from before has been stripped away. Someday she hopes she can reignite the hope in his eyes to the flame it had been that day at the docks. Until then, this is enough; this was always enough.

She steps back until her feet are buried in the soft rug, and he looks so beautiful stood in the doorway, framed in lamplight and loose and quiet in shirtsleeves and dark slacks, his hair mussed from her greedy hands and his mouth bruised with her kisses. He watches her, carefully and closely, as she runs her hands through her hair to arrange it, and puts all of her love for him into one soft, warm smile of invitation.

“It looks better without the dress, you know,” she advises.

“I can’t imagine that possible,” he tells her, softly, and Belle feels she might well collapse under the sheer weight of his sincerity, the force of the love in his eyes and his soft, sweet words.

“Oh, then I suppose you won’t mind me removing it, then?” she raises an eyebrow and her hands to her buttons, but she undoes only one before his urgent hands stop her, and his face is so close to hers for a moment that she can count his eyelashes.

“No, no,” he breathes, “Allow me.”

His spinner’s fingers make short work of her buttons, and then his fingers are sliding slowly down her arms and dragging her sleeves in their wake, and the air in the room is warm against the exposed skin of her back as the dress drops finally to the floor at her stocking feet.

He stands back, but his hands remain feather-light on her forearms, keeping her where he can reach for her, where she can remain tangible. His eyes run from the top of her head down over her corseted waist and the little scrap of lace the shop assistant insisted was underwear, down to the tops of her white stockings and the tips of her toes. She’s blushing to her hairline as she watches his face turn slack with desire, and for her, all for her, all the love and wanting and everything he feels in this moment, all the good emotion he’s been denied for too long, it’s all because of her. He placed his dagger in her hands and trusted her to be careful with it, but that responsibility is nothing compared to this delicate and rare gift that he bestowed a long time ago and renewed tonight. She holds his very heart in her hands, and with warm, deep brown eyes he trusts her yet again to keep it safe.

“May I?” he gestures absently to her ensemble, and she laughs again.

“No, you may not,” she teases, “I intend to sit and read alone for the rest of my wedding night in my special bridal underwear.” She rolls her eyes at him fondly, and sees the spark ignite in his eyes.

He laughs then with her, catching the joke at last through whatever haze is clouding his sharp mind. “Shall I just perch on the bed then, and settle into some terrible hobby? I could take up wood work, if you need quiet to read?”

She bites her lip to hide her grin, and pretends to think, “Hm, I don’t think so. if you’re busy whittling who else is supposed to help me out of this, hm?” she steps closer, and her hand moves up just slightly to cup the hard bulge in his trousers, and squeeze “Or deal with this?”. He swallows, hard, and she licks his Adam’s apple and feels him shake all over.

“Sit on the edge of the bed, then,” he instructs, voice high and strained, and she nods, another of those delicious shivers running down her spine, and does as bade.

He kneels between her ankles when she’s in place, and gently unclips one of her garters from its stocking, rolling the silk fabric slowly down over her knee, his fingertips starting fires on her skin as he does so. He places a gentle kiss to her calf before pulling the silk from her foot, and repeats the same care on her other leg, the contrast of the cool silk and his warm skin delicious and unbearably sensual. She gasps as his lips then meet the inside of her thigh, and then do so again higher, open-mouthed and hot and wet, and higher again, until that scrap of lace has become a barrier and she is trembling all over in anticipation, her hand softly stroking the back of his head and the other bracing her weight on the bedclothes.

He plucks at the waistband hopefully, and Belle lies back on the bed obligingly and lifts her hips. He slides her knickers off over her thighs, and cast them off to the side.

Her breath hitches softly when his lips first meet her core, lightly and tentatively, allowing her to re-adjust to the old sensation. After a moment’s pause, hesitant and teasing both, she shifts her hips, needing more than just a soft kiss, needing everything he can offer her and more besides, too much for one night, but perhaps a lifetime will suffice. He chuckles low in his throat at her wanton movements, and the sound alone reverberates through her bones and sends a shockwaves of need straight through her, causing a little moan to slip from her lips.

He leans down and kisses her again, harder and deeper, his tongue beginning to rediscover old favourite places, places even she has barely touched in the intervening year. The kiss becomes something else soon enough, and she is trembling and whimpering within moments as he licks and sucks at her, tracing her little bud with just his lips before delving in and lapping at her with a flat tongue, stimulating what feels like every raw nerve ending in her body as she shakes and tries to guide his touch back to where she desperately needs him. He at last touches her bud again, and this time he rasps his tongue over it, focusing in and working just there over and over with his whole mouth. She’s releasing a breathy little cry on every exhale, but it’s nothing compared with the hungry, desperate little noises he makes when her fingernails grip at his scalp and pull him deeper, as if he is enjoying this every bit as much as she surely is.

She screams when he moves his hand from her knee and teases her opening with a fingertip, before gently easing inside and filling her slowly, and that’s truly all it takes to drive her to the very peak. Pleasure radiates through her from her core and into every extremity, tensing every muscle and coiling tighter and tighter, unbearable and perfect and glorious all at once, and she screams once, high and keening and utterly wild.

One final scrape of his teeth against her bud has her spiralling into her climax, and she is suddenly coming harder and faster than she ever has before because oh, good gods, she had forgotten how marvellous that could feel, how quickly ecstasy can come when he presses his mouth to her and drinks her down.

She’s dazed and unseeing as he kisses his way back up her body, untying her corset laces as he goes until the front panel is undone, and he can spread it out like wings on either side of her, bearing her torso to his eyes and touch.

“That’s not fair,” she murmurs, craning up to kiss the base of his throat and his jaw, “I’m naked now and you’re still decent.”

She reaches up to pry at his shirtfront, but he gently eases her hands to beside her head and winks at her fondly. “If you remedy that, sweetheart, this will be over all too soon. Please… allow me this?”

Belle is almost afraid of how very much she would happily allow him if he only asked her in that tone, warm and amorous and pleading. She nods, shakily, and he kisses her in thanks; she can taste herself on his lips and tongue, and the eroticism of that sends a fresh wave of desire and pleasure through her.

His mouth slips from hers across her cheek, down her jaw with a slight scrape of teeth to her throat, where he seeks out her pulse point and gently sucks the skin into his mouth, just hard enough to mark her. She wriggles happily beneath him, then stills as his warm, broad hand cups her breast and thumbs at the peak, sending little tingling shocks skittering across her skin. She can feel his pleased smile against her throat as his lips move to meet his hand, and he gently takes her whole nipple in his mouth, sucking slightly and laving it with his tongue until her hands have found their way back into his hair and she is once again making embarrassing noises.

He lifts his head to watch her, and her nipple slips deliciously from his mouth, the sensation causing her eyes to flutter closed once more and her hips to shift restlessly. “Something you need, wife?” he asks, swirling a finger around her navel, and oh he tries to sound so casual and so solicitous but she can feel the hardness of him digging into her knee. Belle is well aware that it is only monumental self-control that prevents him from simply slamming into her and having her there and then, and his eyes gleam with all the desperation they’re both trying to contain.

She looks him dead in the eye, in no mood at this point for teasing all things considered, and raises her knee to press against his crotch. His eyes close and he swallows hard, “Ah.”

“Uh huh,” she grins her victory, “That’s what I thought. Whatever I need, you need, husband.”

Something about that word, new on her lips but wonderful too, snaps something inside him and he all but launches himself at her, crushing her lips beneath hers and devouring her mouth until she is a moaning, melting mess on the bedclothes.

Her hands work at his buttons even as he’s kissing her, and it speaks to how deeply ingrained he is in her that she can still do this without even glancing at her work. He helps her to wrench it from his shoulders, and his belt and pants soon follow until he is as bare as she, and they’re still spread on the edge of the bed.

“Maybe we could move up a bit?” she suggests, “My knees will cramp.”

He nods, his eyes dark and wild and glazed with want, and she wriggles beneath him up the bed as he scrambles to follow. Their limbs tangle and he slips, and ends up falling on top of her as her head hits the pillows. They both dissolve into helpless laughter at their lack of grace; at how even with all barriers removed they can still somehow get in their own way, but something about the ridiculous of it, a swear word dropping from his lips as he falls and his body sprawled over hers, grounds this perfect night into reality. She’s still Belle, and he’s still Rumpelstiltskin, and nobody is dead or dreaming or lost or alone. Everything is all right because he is laughing and so is she, and the tenderness in his eyes as he looks at her is as beautiful as it is human.

His erection is digging into her hip, and she’s sure he can feel how embarrassingly wet she is against his thigh. But he’s still beaming and she’s got the giggles. Any lingering tension from their wedding or their urgency is broken in the perfect closeness and joy of that one ridiculous moment.

When he at last manages to line them back up again he reaches to hold her face in one hand, and seems content to just into her eyes for a long moment. His thumb strokes her cheekbone softly, wonderingly, as the other cups her hip and draws her toward him. “Alright, sweetheart?” he asks, softly, checking yet again, and she nods as a knot forms in her throat. Belle is now so happy that she could cry and laugh and most likely fly all at once.

She presses a kiss to his palm where it rests on her cheek, and he pushes up inside her without another word, their eyes locked and lost on one another as he does so until he’s sheathed all the way in her and they’re at last united. They are as close as two people can possibly be, breathing the same breath, every limb wrapped as tightly as can be and inseparable, and it feels as if nothing could ever break them apart again.

Her arms tangle around his shoulders as his forearms come under hers, and her thighs clench against his waist, her feet on his backside urging him on. Rumpelstiltskin’s forehead rests against hers as he pulls out as far as he can bear to – not far at all, really – and thrusts back in again immediately, rocking against her, maintaining their closeness while creating the friction she craves.

The rhythm they establish is slow and deep, as much about the connection as it is about the act itself. They’ve made love many times in this bed, but Belle has never felt it this deeply or this meaningfully before. She wishes that it would never end; that he could be nestled safe inside her forever, with this slow, lapping, melting pleasure seeping through her and her true love, her husband, so close that she can feel every inch of him against her.

Time seems liquid, elastic and suspended as Rumpelstiltskin makes love to her, and Belle swoons and melts in his arms, beyond simple happiness now and into a place of utter bliss, love and pleasure and contentment all at once. She clings to him and he thrusts in and out of her, every inch of them aligned, and everything is heat and love and Rumpelstiltskin, breath to breath and heartbeat to heartbeat.

She feels it when his control begins to stretch, for his thrusts become harder and faster, and he grits his teeth, his eyes slamming closed as he races for completion. he changes the angle, and suddenly his pubic bone is brushing against that nub of nerves that sends her flying, and she’s hurtled back into the moment, bucking her hips in time with his thrusts, crying out his name and begging for completion.

They come at exactly the same moment, her eyes flying open to meet his for just a moment in amazement, before the climax truly takes hold and sets her alight, pleasure setting every nerve on fire and turning her muscles to water. She releases a high, breathy cry, as he slams into her in three final thrusts, releasing inside her as he groans against her throat.

He holds her for a while longer, breathing hard against her sweat-slick neck as she clings limply onto him, weak and boneless after her climax. At last he softens inside her and slips out, and she bemoans the loss even as he finds the strength to roll her over with him and curl his body around her back, pulling the blanket with his feet from the bottom of the bed to cover them both.

“I love you so much,” Rumpelstiltskin breathes against her throat, and she wonders drowsily if he thinks she’s already asleep, if he’s expecting a response or even acknowledgement, “I promise. And I’ll never be able to tell you how much.”

“I love you too,” she whispers back, “Always and through anything. I promise.”

His arms around her tighten and pull her closer, and he kisses her throat reverently, over and over again. They have all night, she remembers, even as she slips into a happy doze, and every night after, until death do them part and beyond. Forever.


End file.
